10. Gwineth
"You're early."
Jim looks at me like he wants to rip me apart. I put my purse down on the dresser with a cigarette in my hand, ready to use it as a diversion for when I need to think before I speak.
"I got bored," I state, hoping my voice won't betray the fear. The way his lips curl in disgust makes me want to run and hide.
"Imagine that," he hisses. "Untie me, Gwineth. Now."
"What if I don't?" I ask. Maybe if I just pick up where I left off this morning he'll be less inclined to murder when I free him. One look in his eyes and I realise that Jim Moriarty is never not inclined to murder. He doesn't say anything, he doesn't need to. He looks up at me, then his stare wanders across the room and I can almost see the wheels turning in his brain.
I cautiously approach the bed and his eyes are on me once more, scrutinizing my every move as I undo the knots around his left wrist. He closes his fist and his knuckles click, then he unties the other wrist himself. I'm too scared to do anything else, so I grab the lighter from the nighstand and light my cigarette.
He turns at the sound, and I see his eyes piercing me through the first puff of smoke I exhale.
I try my best to keep a straight face, but my insides are turning. He gets dressed without saying a word, and I almost relax for a second. I walk up to him and adjust his tie without thinking - it was crooked and that bugged me. He catches my hand in his, his grip so strong I fear my bones might break, and cracks an evil smirk.
"I could break your wrist with just a slight turn of my hand right now," he whispers, and grips a little tighter. "I would love to watch your pretty face turn pale from the pain," he goes on, and I can feel my heart skip a few beats. "I won't do that," he suddenly soothes, "if you can answer one teeny tiny question." I nod and he smiles again. "What were you expecting to accomplish by leaving me strapped to the bed all day?" he hisses.
I blink a few times and lower my gaze, but his other hand grabs my jaw to keep my eyes on his.
"Break my wrist," I spit out through clenched teeth.
"Answer the question, Gwineth."
"No," I state, gaining a little courage. He twists my wrist, not enough to break it, but enough to elicit a whimper of pain from me.
"Answer me," he repeats. I close my eyes and refuse once more. He immediately twists again, this time all the way. I let out a strangled cry and fall on my knees, he lets go of my jaw, but he's still holding my wrist. He squeezes it and I bite my lip and groan in pain.
"Feeling chatty yet?" he asks. His head oscillates from one side to the other in a curiously reptilian fashion, but the pain is so sharp I can't hold my head up long enough to look at him while I speak.
"Jim," I whimper. "Jim..."
He crouches down in front of me, his free hand tucks my hair behind my ear. He squeezes my wrist again and I exhale sharply to avoid screaming.
The pain is almost blinding now, but I'm not going to let him break me.
"Just tell me what I want to know, kitten," he chants.
"No," I breathe. He lets go of my wrist and I clutch it to my chest, silently wondering if he plans on breaking any more bones tonight. He stands up and fixes his trousers, then disappears in the corridor.
I feel like I'm going to faint, so I try to concentrate on my breathing to slow my heartbeat down. There has to be something very wrong with me, I suddenly think, if instead of just telling him how I feel I preferred to let him break my wrist. I can't think straight at the moment, but that's going to be a great subject for inner debate, later.
"Give me your arm," he says calmly. I didn't notice him walking in the room. When I open my eyes, I see he's holding a washcloth full of ice cubes.
I shakingly outstretch my arm, and he gently takes my hand in his to hold me steady, then places the ice on my wrist with his other hand and adjusts the cubes so they fit better.
"Hold this for me," he says then, taking my healthy hand and placing it where his was, to hold the washcloth in place. I don't have the strength to say or do anything, so I idly take over. He takes his phone out and dials. He asks calmly for a cab and gives my address. I feel dizzy.
"You're a disgrace, Gwineth," he hisses, and takes over the washcloth for me.
"I've been called worse," I reply with the little voice I have left.
"I'm sure you have," he snorts. "If you ever pull something like this again," he whispers in my ear, "I will break your fingers off one by one before snapping your wrist in two, pet."
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. He doesn't wait for me to manage an answer, he just stands up again, slips his coat on and walks away. I feel tears in my eyes as I get up from the floor, but they won't come out. They just burn behind my eyeballs and I wonder if instead of tears it's my brain exploding.
Somehow I manage to leave my flat and wait for the cab outside the front door. I get in and ask for the hospital.